


Just Another Day

by Southern_Breeze



Series: WAD - William Appreciation Day 2K15 [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: A day in the life of..., Gen, POV First Person, WAD, William Awareness Day 2K15, William's a Proud Pigeon Papa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:30:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5264294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southern_Breeze/pseuds/Southern_Breeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just another day in the seemingly endless existence of William T. Spears. This first person POV was written for WAD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day

**Just Another Day**

I wake up in the darkened stillness just as I do every morning and reach over to turn off the clock alarm just as the annoying buzz is beginning to sound. My actions are automatic, almost mechanical, but there is a certain comfort in a familiar routine. Without hesitation, I throw back the covers, sit up in bed, and retrieve my spectacles from their appointed place on my nightstand. My bedroom comes into focus as I feel the familiar weight settle on my ears and across the bridge of my nose. Another day has officially begun.

Quickly, I make my way to the bathroom to begin my preparations for another day at work. I find it rather amazing how time seems to move so quickly in terms of how much needs to be completed, yet seems to stretch on endlessly, but this is not the moment to consider philosophical concepts. After a brief, cold shower, I carefully comb my hair, eat a small yet sensible breakfast, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I always do that in particular order as it is the order that makes the most sense, and thus is the most logical. Afterwards, I make the bed and fold my pajamas so that everything is in its place.

There are times I truly hate to leave my apartment. I am in control here, and everything is precisely where it belongs. Here I am surrounded by order, but I still have to venture forth into the chaos. It is simply the way things are and the way they must be. I have no control over it.

The walk to dispatch is brief and there are little distractions as most are still asleep, which is precisely why I prefer to leave so early. Besides, as a supervisor I should set a good example for my subordinates, so it would be unseemly for me to wander in at the last minute. I walk the polished hallways alone, and I listen to the sound of my shoes echoing on the clean, cold floors. It almost sounds like a heartbeat, although I do not take the time to wax poetically on this concept as others might as I continue to my office.

Like my apartment, my office is a sanctuary. I don’t have quite as much control as I have returned in the morning to find things have been moved or misplaced, although several stern talks with the supervisor of the cleaning crew has seemingly rectified the situation. There were rumors afterwards that I had blown the situation out of proportion, but I feel I was in the right. It was a violation of my personal space. I had everything arranged perfectly, so there was no reason to change anything.

Allowing my eyes to scan my office, I see all is as it should be. Standing silently in the doorway, I wait for the first few agents to arrive although it is still early. It is preferable that I am the first thing that they see so that they might be reminded to take their jobs seriously, although that seems to be a lost cause for some. Several minutes pass before I hear the first few coming down the hall; laughing and talking. I don’t understand their attitudes for our very existence is a punishment, but far too many treat it as a time for fun and enjoyment.

Such thinking is undoubtedly dangerous if they have any wish to be redeemed.

My presence works as the early agents appear to immediately sober when they glance my way as they slink off to their desks as if they had misbehaved. Time continues to tick in its endless way, and I see that a few have not yet arrived. If they don’t hurry, they will be late, which will mean paperwork for myself to go along with their punishment. It seems that my position of pseudo authority really only comes with more punishment instead of any sort of reward, but I am not seeking a reward.

The final two agents, Sutcliff and Knox as usual, walk in at the last possible second. Sutcliff locks eyes with me before clocking in and starts my way, but I quickly close and lock my door. I am not ready for theatrics so early in the morning, nor will I be ready later. Besides, I like to shut my door once all the workers have arrived. It is a physical representation of our separation. I am no longer a field agent for I have moved beyond that. I just haven’t moved far enough beyond just yet.

The day passes with its odd combination of fast and slow, and I watch as the pile of papers on my desk never seems to decrease no matter how much work I complete. Diligently and tirelessly I work, but my workload never lessens. “Honestly,” I mutter to myself as I adjust my glasses. I have a tender spot on my nose where I adjust them so often. The counselor that all of us are forced to see regularly says it is a sign of stress, and foolishly asked me what caused me stress.

As working hours wind down, I unlock the door just in case there are any questions or matters that needs my attention. Sutcliff has already gone on an assignment, but Knox is waiting to talk to me. He has some basic question that I realize he knows the answer to, so I ask him what his real purpose for speaking to me.

“Well, Mr. Spears,” the young reaper says, running his hand through that oddly bi-colored hair of his, “I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me and the guys tonight. You never seem to go out, and I thought it might be fun. What do you say? It’s a great way to relax.”

I look at Knox for a few moments. While I recognize that he is merely attempting to be friendly, I find his attitude concerning our sentence both lax and irresponsible. He wants to be kind and friendly, but I do find his attempt to ‘draw me out,’ as I have heard it referred to about the office, irritating. “I do not think it would be fun, Knox,” I reply, “It sounds more like an invitation for trouble. As it is, I cannot attend such frivolous activities if I wanted to, which I most certainly do not. I have more paperwork to complete.”

“How can you stand that much overtime?” Knox asks, but he leaves without waiting for an answer. Now that dispatch has grown quiet once more, I return to my office to dedicate a few more hours to the never shrinking stack of papers.

It is dark when I return to my apartment, although I can envision the layout before I flick on the switch and watch as the yellow glow illuminates my living space. My pigeon, Rosalind, flies from her perch to land on my shoulder to greet me in her own special way. I used to have many of her feathered friends, but there was recently a new rule that limited the number of pets in our apartment. I would have argued that they were my companions and not pets, but I recognize rules have a place. If everyone started only following the rules they agreed with, there would only be chaos. I kept Rosalind and her mate Nikola, but he died recently. Although Rosalind still tries to comfort me, I can see a certain amount of mourning in her dark eyes for her mate. How peculiar a pigeon can offer me comfort, but I cannot do the same in return.

I feed Rosalind and prepare my own dinner. It had been laid out at the beginning of the week, so it is already properly measured. Soon, we have both eaten our fill and Rosalind returns to her perch. It appears she is fully aware that I will need a few minutes alone.

My apartment was designed for supervisors, and allows for a bit more space than I had previously as a field agent. There is an extra room which can be used as a study or spare bedroom, but I use it for a different purpose. Without words, I walk to the room, open the door, and turn on the light.

Countless calendars stare down at me from the walls almost accusatorily. 

Like any prisoner, I wanted to count down the days of my sentence, although there was no way to know when I might be freed. I started collecting the calendars as a student in the academy, and the practice simply became a part of my routine as much as anything else. There are a few collectible calendars here, like one that has some interesting pictures of pigeons, but most are simply functional. The black numbers are almost like eyes that judge me for it seems that no matter how hard I try, how diligently I work, or how much I accept my punishment, I can’t move on.

Stepping into the room, I walk up to the most recent calendar and mark off today’s date with a black marker I have hanging on a string nearby. Another day down, but how many more to go? Wordlessly, I look around and realize that I have little space left for all of the calendars. I have to wonder if my sentence will end before I no longer have an empty place to count down the days.

There is no time to consider such matters as the time has come to bed, and there is much to do to prepare. Closing the door on the room of passed time, I walk through the house to begin my nightly routine. Routines are important after all.

Routines, order, and rules – that’s all I really have to hold on to.


End file.
